The Healing Circle. Dr. Robert MD Rutledge
also asked to suspend their attachment to any specific outcome.
Instead of trying to control what will happen in the future, Tim asks people to focus on what they can do in the present, to find a wellspring of wisdom to guide them in reclaiming the joy of wholeness that was there all along, but may have been hidden under the intensity of striving for a particular result.
The cancer journey, and life in general, contains some degree of suffering. Acknowledging this is an essential step in reclaiming a sense of wholeness. Embracing turbulent emotions has a transformative effect on one’s whole being. Most people want to reject their awful feelings, dispelling the energy by acting out or stuffing them down into shadows of the psyche. But deep within these so-called “negative emotions” lies the energy of life and a doorway to profound insight.
For Jackie, John, and the others in the healing circle, the process of reclaiming their already existing wholeness begins by simply showing up, showing up with all their fear, anger, and despair – as well as their courage, fortitude, and wisdom. Tim invites everyone present to bring all of themselves into the healing circle for the weekend—all their awkwardness and self-critical judgments as well as their laughter and joy. Showing up just as they are gives them a real and solid place to begin, a ground of truth from which to start their journey.
Tim continues his talk, saying “Our physical bodies are part of our wholeness, but this is not the whole picture. Our physical experience is nested within our psychological and social realms, and nested in awareness itself. Wholeness and healing are about integration, about bringing all of these parts together— synchronizing our body, mind, and spirit.
“We are shattered yet whole. To struggle with this paradox is itself a process of healing. The loss, sorrow, and pain—and everything that can come with a cancer diagnosis—brings us to a bigger understanding of what it really means to be human. This is what we’ll learn on this retreat.”
The people in the circle seem to be settling back in their chairs. In a moment of silence a few people turn to their loved ones to whisper, or smile at each other and hold hands. Others look across the circle, curious and somehow uplifted by all the people in the room. Others seem to be looking deep into themselves, as if remembering a sense of wellness. The nervousness in the group is fading, and a sense of possibilities and purpose begins to arise.
Chapter 4
Opening Circle
When your fear touches someone’s pain, it becomes pity; when your love touches someone’s pain, it becomes compassion.
Stephen Levine
Friday evening. Rob facilitates the first group exercise by asking everyone sitting in the large circle to take one or two minutes to introduce themselves by telling a little of their cancer story, what has been most difficult during their journey, and their hopes for the weekend.
There is an uncomfortable silence when people realize they will be sharing the intimate details of their lives with fifty strangers. Rob asks for a brave volunteer and waits.
Earl raises his hand. He is a small pale man in his sixties with a thin white beard and dark-rimmed glasses. He looks comfortable in his V-neck sweater. His wife is beside him, her arm across his back. Earl’s voice is soft, almost hollow, but he is articulate and seems completely at peace with himself. “I was diagnosed with prostate cancer five years ago. I’ve found myself on the wrong side of the curve every step of the way. I now have metastatic cancer that’s gone through the bones and into my internal organs.
“I’m in the middle of the reprieve that comes from the hormone therapy. I’m doing great. I have a little bit of trouble justifying all the special attention I’m getting.” He squeezes his wife’s hand, then looks brightly out to the others. “But I’m getting used to it.” He continues in an even voice, “The biggest problem I have is the effect it has had on Pat”— he taps his wife on the knee, “and the rest of my family. For me, a kind of acceptance came with the diagnosis. But it was painful to see people having to absorb this bad news as it came on to them rather quickly. We thought the cancer was under control, then it shot through the roof.”
Earl pauses, then offers his hope for the weekend: “I’m looking for heart connections and more.” He raises his eyebrows briefly and smiles gently.
Earl is unlikely to undergo any type of transformation during the weekend. He already rests calmly in a place of deep peace, acceptance, and love for his fellow travellers. He’ll bask in the energy of the group, listen closely to their stories, and immerse himself in the group exercises. He’ll support others whenever he can, like volunteering to speak first in front of the group. His inner radiance is already a guiding light for others, especially those who have been recently diagnosed. Near the end of his life, this man is very much alive.
Pat is younger than Earl, her dark hair woven evenly with grey. “Pretty much everything Earl said, I can echo. When we found out about the spread to the liver, I had a couple of weeks of crash and burn. I came out of that, but I still go into it every once in a while. Right now I’m struggling with work responsibilities and wanting to spend as much time as I can with Earl. So it’s been a real roller coaster. Probably this group would understand that it is both the best time of our lives and the worst time of our lives.”
Pat smiles at Earl. “In this weekend, I’m looking for the strength and skills that will take me through the future, no matter what that brings.”
Nancy is next. A forty-year-old mother of teenagers, a nurse with a full bright face and brown caring eyes, her voice begins to tremble as she tells her story. She motions to the thin white-haired lady sitting beside her. “I’m here in support of my Mom. Cancer has touched our lives a number of times. My father had metastatic prostate cancer. My mother had breast cancer and now she has peritoneal cancer. Right now, I’m overwhelmed by everything that’s happened. My husband has just been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s as well.” With this she begins to cry quietly. Her mother reaches over and pats her on the shoulder. Nancy tries to continue. “I’m feeling…”, but she just continues to cry.
I let out an audible sigh and support her show of emotion. “It’s OK to cry. Just stay with it”
People are listening closely and I can sense a feeling of great caring in the room. Nancy finishes with, “I’m hoping to gain strength this weekend for the journey ahead. I want to help the people I work with, and my family.”
Nancy’s mother takes the microphone. She is a perky and positive person. “The hardest thing for me is the guilt that I have given this difficulty to my three daughters and son. They have all accepted it. And so we are moving on. I am very busy and enjoying life. My chemo is over now. I sailed through that.” She runs her hand through her short curly hair, and then says with a laugh, “Now I have curls.” She wants to make Nancy feel better.
The group laughs as they continue to waver between touching their own pain and trying to stay positive. Several people already have tears in their eyes and I encourage everyone to share the boxes of tissues found under their chairs.
The next person to speak, a stocky middle-aged French Canadian woman with short hair, rests back easily in her chair. She’s confident, outgoing, and willing to express the truth as she sees it. Three years ago she was diagnosed with a rare type of cancer called carcinoid. There’s still anger in her voice when she says she was sent away from the emergency room and dismissed by her gynecologists three times before being diagnosed. She admits, “Being angry is one of the things coming up right now. I’ve had surgery and two bouts of chemo and right now I’m on vacation.” She smiles broadly at the group showing the humour that resurfaces through her introduction.
“The worst part is the anger, the stress, the effect on my husband, who is a double amputee. And the uncertainty.” She almost cries through her words. “Cancer is a blessing in a way but it’s also a curse. I find I can cope well most of the time, but at night I’m having a hard time. I’m glad I’m getting in touch with my feelings because I can use humour as a deflective device.”